


Deeper Gulfs

by tiranog



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2166903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiranog/pseuds/tiranog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspector Lewis tries to repair the damage done to his working relationship with his sergeant after the Life Born of Fire episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deeper Gulfs

**Author's Note:**

> For Partners_R_More - thanks for the incredible edit, all the encouragement, and the delightful Lewis goodies.

A week had passed since that fateful night Inspector Robbie Lewis carried his sergeant from

Zoe Kenneth’s burning house.  The paper work was nearly finished.  Another few hours and the last of the reports would be filed. 

 

Harder still, Kenneth’s corpse had been released.  No family had come forward to claim Feardorcha Phelan/Zoe Kenneth’s remains.  Hathaway hadn’t said, but Lewis knew his sergeant had taken care of the final arrangements.  That couldn’t have been easy.  But true to form, Hathaway hadn’t said a word about any of it.

 

 _Hathaway_.  Lewis’ gaze moved to the tall figure hunched over the keyboard across his office.  The cut and bruising on the right side of James’ face was nearly healed now.  Lewis surreptitiously studied the familiar profile, searching for clues, something that would explain last week’s bizarre events.  But the word enigmatic didn’t describe Hathaway by half.  The man was a bloody cypher.

 

Since the doctors had cleared Hathaway for duty three days ago, his sergeant had shown up for work and performed with his usual faultless efficiency.  If the younger man seemed somewhat subdued, well . . . Hathaway had lost three people he knew to violent deaths in the space of a week.  Lewis wasn't sure if he should lump Reverend King in with Will McEwan and Feardorcha Phelan/Zoe Kenneth, for Hathaway had said he'd never liked the man, but, still, Hathaway had known the priest.  The gruesome nature of all three deaths would weigh on anyone’s mind, even someone far less reserved than his scholarly partner.  Add to that the fact that Hathaway had been unwittingly dating the murderer . . . Lewis couldn't imagine what the younger man was going through. 

 

On the outside, things seemed to be normal between them.  But everything was far from fine.  Hathaway was walking on eggs around him, while Lewis himself . . .

                                                                                                   

Hell, Lewis recognized that it might even be he himself that was the source of the tension between them.  He'd been trying to carry on as if last week hadn't happened.  But, as much as he hated to admit it, his . . . faith had been shaken.  He felt like one of the cornerstones he based his life on had been shattered, that at any moment, everything he thought he knew would come crashing down on him, just as it had the day Val died. 

 

Three weeks ago, Lewis would have wagered his pension, maybe even his life, that his by-the-book sergeant would never willfully withhold information vital to a case from him.  He’d trusted this man’s integrity as he had few others.  But . . . not only had James withheld information from him, he’d straight out lied to him, a bitter pill to swallow.  Even now, Lewis couldn’t comprehend what had motivated the deceit, for deceit it was.  In retrospect, he recognized that James had started lying to him before Will McEwan’s corpse had even been removed from St. Mark’s.  It was hard to factor in that type of conscious deception to what he thought he knew about James Hathaway’s character.

 

About the only positive thing Lewis could say concerning the whole sorry mess was that, as far as he knew, Hathaway hadn’t actively obstructed the investigation – his sergeant hadn’t hidden any of the details he’d unearthed in Reverend King’s files.  James had just refused to volunteer any information that touched upon him personally.  That had to count for something.

 

But somehow, it didn’t feel like a whole lot.

 

Lewis reached for his cup.  Even the dregs from the cold coffee were gone.  Grimacing, he announced, “I’m going for a refill.  You need anything?”

 

They’d been here all day plowing through accumulated paperwork.  It was amazing how much red tape surrounded even a single death, let alone five.  Lewis was nearly at the point of wishing for a new corpse to get out of the office.  Only, that would eventually necessitate even more paperwork.

 

“No, sir.  Thank you, sir.”  As always, Hathaway sounded genuinely touched by any show of personal kindness his superior officer exhibited.  He’d seemed especially grateful these last three days.

 

With a nod, Lewis collected his mug and headed down the hall to the tea station, which was right off the Incident Room, across from the rest rooms.  He tried not to grit his teeth when he saw his two least favorite DCs, Marshall and Winthrop, standing at the coffee maker, their backs to the door, their voices raised in the usual malicious trash the pair engaged in.  Marshall was a few years older than Hathaway, slim and pointy like some type of bipedal rodent.  Winthrop was a big, beer bellied bear of a man. 

 

Lewis normally ignored the pair of them, knowing they were unworthy of his attention, but this afternoon, Marshall’s words stopped him dead in his tracks.

 

“I tell you, they dragged His Holiness out of the he-she’s bed.  Knew he was a nonce the minute I clapped eyes on him, but this is beyond belief.  Hathaway was so wasted, Lewis had to carry him out.  Don’t know how they allowed the likes of him on the force.  In my day – “

 

“I’d have taken you outside and made you eat every one of those foul lies,” Lewis interjected in a voice so tight and strained even he could hear the suppressed violence in it.  He didn’t dare move closer to them, for fear of what he might do.  He couldn’t help but make a quick visual assessment of the surrounding area.  No one in the main room was close enough to have heard Marshall, but Lewis knew if he didn’t put a stop to this now, it wouldn’t be long before it was all over the station, if it wasn't already.

 

Marshall’s coffee cup dropped to the linoleum, shattering with a loud crash.  Both constables swung around to face him, their faces draining of colour.

 

Lewis took a deep breath and tried to dissipate the fury pounding through his veins.  Innocent would nail his hide to the door if he touched either of these tossers, no matter how much they might be asking for it.  He made a conscious choice to step back from his anger and defuse; although the tension inside was shrieking for some type of outlet.  “Fortunately for you, I'm a bit more clear headed than I was back then, but I promise you that if I catch even a whiff of this rubbish out of either of you again, you'll be up on disciplinary action faster than your spiteful tongues can wag.  Sergeant Hathaway is your superior officer.  Nothing that happened to him last Saturday was his fault.  You will treat him with the respect and professional courtesy his rank requires or you will find yourself down at the market asking tourists if they want vinegar with their chips.  If I hear either of you spreading this filth around, you will regret the day you were born – professionally and personally.  I've been around long enough to know where the bodies are buried.  And where the DCs spend their lunch hours."  Lewis had heard that both married men had engaged the services of women they should have been arresting a time or two.  As he hadn't witnessed it himself, it wasn't something he could officially report, but it did make a lovely threat.  "Do I make myself understood?"  If he’d learned one thing from being Morse’s bagman all those years, it was how to be a bloody terror when needed.  

 

The dark stain spreading across the front of Marshall’s trousers had no doubt come from the dropped coffee mug, but it looked like something else at the moment.  He didn’t know what was in his expression, but both constables were watching him like he’d just pulled the pin on a hand grenade.   

 

Two quick nods followed.

 

"I didn't hear you," Lewis pressed.

 

"Yes, sir," Marshall hurried to offer, Winthrop seconding him with, "Understood, sir."

 

"Right.  Get out of my sight."  All desire for caffeine eliminated, Lewis turned away in disgust. 

 

The week being what it was, Hathaway was, of course, standing just a few feet behind him and had clearly overheard the entire exchange on his way to the Gents.  For an instant, their gazes touched.

 

Lewis had seen hints of how devastated Hathaway was by last week's events during the course of the investigation, but at the moment, everything was there in those tormented green eyes:  the horror, the grief, but above all else, there was shame.  Two bright spots of colour spread across Hathaway's knife-sharp cheekbones, then his sergeant turned and hurried back to their office.  James' gait wasn't quite as fast as it had been when he'd run from the corpse in St. Mark's last week, but those long legs could walk faster than most people could jog when Hathaway had a mind to.  His back still aching from being tossed around last week by the explosions at Zoe Kenneth’s place, Lewis hurried after his bagman as fast as he could manage.

 

When Lewis reached their office, he found Hathaway standing in front of his desk, back to the door, hands balled at his sides in tight fists, close shorn head bowed.

 

Having no clue what to say, Lewis put his cup down on his own desk and gave a disgusted, "We're done."

 

There was no way he could concentrate on paperwork after that scene.

 

To his confusion, Hathaway's entire body flinched, as if flicked with a whip.  Lewis heard the shaky breath his sergeant drew as that tall form seemed to force itself to straighten and turn to face him.  An emotion akin to despair crossed Hathaway's long-boned face before he schooled his features into stony resignation. 

 

At first, Lewis couldn't fathom the intense emotional currents in the room, but then, he realized how his words might have been misinterpreted by his guilt-prone sergeant. "Acch, I meant we're done for the day.  Let's go.  I think we both could use a drink."

 

Uncomfortable under that astonished gaze, Lewis turned to fetch his suit jacket off the back of his chair.

 

As they'd done dozens of times in the past, they left the station and walked over to the Trout pub on the river bank.  The cool, damp air was a relief after the day's office work.  Lewis breathed it in deep and tried to release the lingering anger over the scene with Marshall and Winthrop.  He glanced up at the overcast sky, wondering how long the rain would hold off.

 

Normally, they would hash out the current case during their brief walk or Hathaway would be educating his inspector on whatever subject was his most recent obsession, but tonight his sergeant was unrelentingly silent. 

 

Lewis couldn't blame the man.  He wouldn't know what to say, either, were their positions reversed.  _Bloody tossers_.

 

The pub was predictably crowded when they arrived, the noise level jarring.  Lewis looked through the glass doors separating the main room from the patio tables outside.  There were only a couple of stubborn tourists out there, the threat of bad weather apparently enough to keep the more sensible regulars inside.

 

Lewis gestured towards the patio with his chin.  "Grab us a table, would you?  Chicken and ham pot pie do you?"  Before the protest in Hathaway's eyes was given voice, Lewis reminded in a no nonsense tone, "You didn't eat lunch."

 

He knew the Trout’s pot pie was one of James’ favorite meals and sure to tempt him.

 

"That's fine, sir.  Thank you, sir."

 

Repressing yet another sigh at the unstinting formality, Lewis nodded and headed for the bar.  At least the surprise on Hathaway's face was a welcome change from the gloom of the last few days.  He put in their order, collected a couple of pints, and headed out to the patio.

 

Hathaway was sitting at the most remote of the tables, his chair back to the table, smoke curling up around him from the cigarette in hand as he watched the ducks poking through the wet grass a few feet away.

 

Lewis couldn't see his sergeant's face, but the shoulders beneath that charcoal gray suit looked like they were carrying the weight of the world.  Lewis took a moment to drink in the sight of his partner just sitting there, grateful that the stupid git was still above ground.  He was far too aware that if he had been just a few minutes later last Saturday, Zoe Kenneth's gas line would have blown and he'd be standing at Hathaway's graveside about now.  That knowledge put a lot of things in perspective.

 

"Here you go," Lewis said when he reached the table.  Moving carefully to spare his back, he took a seat and placed the pint before Hathaway.  Even that small act of athleticism left his lower back throbbing. 

 

Hathaway turned to face him.  "Thank you, sir . . . for this and . . . what you said before."

 

Despite the faultless courtesy, Lewis could sense the controlled man's ill ease.  Lewis knew how he’d be feeling if he’d been the subject of that vicious exchange.  Having no clue what to say after that humiliating incident, he settled on a heartfelt, "I'm sorry you had to overhear that."

 

"It's nothing I haven't heard before, sir."  Hathaway said the words the way he might report that it was starting to rain outside, as if it were a daily happenstance and not an isolated instance of vile bigotry.

 

"Maybe so, but you shouldn't be hearing it at the office."  Lewis took a sip of his bitter, licking the foam off his lip as the luxurious flavor spread through him.

 

"I'm just grateful I'm not hearing it from my Inspector, sir.  You'd have every right.  I know I let you down."

 

This was the James Hathaway he knew, the serious young man who agonized over every mistake, actual or imagined.  Normally, Lewis would try to deflect his sergeant's guilt, but the fact was, Hathaway had let him down last week, repeatedly.  He wasn't one for angst-riddled heart to hearts – what Northerner was? – but Lewis knew they had to address this issue, however uncomfortable it might be.  Taking a deep breath and another sip, Lewis lowly admitted, "I'd'uv bet my life's savings you'd never tell me a bald faced lie, not about something important."

 

Neither one of them was above avoiding an unwanted question with the occasional, humorous evasion, but there was a difference between deflection and outright deception. 

 

Those fair-lashed eyes squeezed shut, almost as if in physical pain.  Then Hathaway seemed to force himself to meet his gaze and responded with a soft, "So would I."

 

Hearing the truth in that, Lewis was encouraged enough to ask, "Your private life is your own business.  But . . . can you tell me what happened?  That just wasn't the James Hathaway I know." 

 

Looking at James' actions as a dispassionate Detective Inspector instead of through the eyes of a hurt friend, Lewis realized that his sergeant had behaved exactly like a gay man in the 1980s with a sensitive job whose private life was about to become world-shatteringly public.

 

James sighed, crushed out his cigarette on the bench, and tossed the remains into a nearby rubbish bin.  "Outside of the church last week you said that it might have been suicide, but that someone had put the gun in Will's hand.  That someone was me.  The blood-splattered leaflet on the altar might have been the very one I gave Will when he came to me for help."  Hathaway gave a humorless snort.  "Help.  I might as well have turned him over to Torquemada."

 

"Hang on just a minute, this happened – what? – almost ten years ago?"

 

Hathaway gave a tight nod.

 

This wasn't where Lewis had thought the conversation would go when he'd initiated it, but his sergeant clearly needed to talk about the issue.  After all, it wasn't like James had anyone else to talk to.  Quickly collecting his thoughts, Lewis said, "I know you feel responsible for what happened to your friend.  I wasn't there.  I can't refute or excuse anything you think you may have done to contribute to Will's death, but he had nearly a decade of experiences after you talked to him – "

 

"Maybe, but – “ Hathaway started to interject and then stopped talking, his long-boned face twisted with emotion.

 

“But what?”

 

“How would you feel if someone you knew blew his brains out, clutching something you’d given him?” 

 

Put that way, Hathaway’s response made sense.

 

"Pretty damn awful, but, James, this didn’t happen right after you had your last interaction with the man.”  Lewis made a conscious decision to use Hathaway's given name, trying to ease any lingering doubt the other man might have that this was an official interaction. 

 

“I sent him to the people who destroyed him,” Hathaway insisted.

 

“Maybe you did, but . . .there was a certain inevitability to it all, wasn’t there?” Lewis asked, heartsick over the situation himself, and he was nowhere near as personally connected to the tragedy as Hathaway.

 

“What do you mean _inevitability_?”

 

“Will didn't go to a psychiatrist or a counsellor.  He went to someone studying to be a priest.  You gave him the doctrine that anyone in that position would have given him.  Yes, maybe you could have been more compassionate in how you relayed your answer, but the message would have been the same if he'd gone to any other seminarian or priest at that time, wouldn't it?"

 

James gave a reluctant nod, his expression raw and watchful, like he was waiting to be reviled.  “Does that mitigate my responsibility for my part in it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Lewis answered.  “All that I know is that there's been more than enough suffering and bloodshed over Will’s death to satisfy even the most vindictive vigilante.  It’s time to – ”

 

“What?  Move on?” Hathaway practically spat.

 

“No.  That line of advice would be more than a little hypocritical coming from me, wouldn’t it?”  

 

The bright anger in Hathaway’s eyes turned to regret.  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

 

“I know.”

 

“How . . . how does a man atone for something like that?” Hathaway asked in a voice so low, Lewis barely heard it.

 

Atonement wasn't a subject most of the people he knew spent a lot of time worrying about.  Lewis sensed that this was the crux of his friend’s problem.  But he was no priest to guide James through this type of crisis.  Still, there was no one else here to help at the moment, and he’d rarely seen anyone in such need of comforting.  Taking a deep breath, Lewis softly suggested, “Pray that Will finds peace?”

 

“You don’t believe in God or prayer,” Hathaway accused in that tight, clipped tone that was always one breath away from completely closing him out.

 

“No, I don’t.  But you do.  And, I don’t have to believe in either to hope that the spirits of the shattered bodies we deal with every day have found peace somewhere, do I?”

 

"No, of course not.  I . . . I'm sorry."

 

"So am I," Lewis said.

 

"What have you to be sorry about?"

 

"That all this happened to you, and to your friend, as well.  It really wasn't your fault."

 

The ducks in the grass behind them entered into a loud honking match at that moment.  When the avian fracas died down, Hathaway said, "You would never have been that cruel."

 

"I was close to it with you last week."  At the blank look that garnered, Lewis specified, "When I wouldn't let you explain your actions."   

 

"There wasn't any explanation for them – my actions were inexcusable.  I know you've no reason to believe me, but I am sorry."  Hathaway couldn't have looked any more haunted if he'd tried.

 

"I know you are, but . . . I still don't understand why you lied to me.  Did you really think I would accuseyou of intentionally driving Will to suicide?"  It was the only link he could make between their previous conversation topic and the original one.

 

"It's not that easy, sir.  I wish it were.  You don't know how much I wish it."

 

And here they were, back on the unstable terrain of unasked questions and deflected admissions.  For the life of him, Lewis didn't know how much he should presume upon his partner's private life.  That horrid scene with Marshall and Winthrop was answer enough as to why Hathaway might want to avoid the subject on general principle.  Maybe Lewis was kidding himself, but he'd really thought that James and he had a relationship that transcended their work association.  He was more than a little hurt that Hathaway couldn't be straight with him . . . or not straight.  He hadn't lied last week when he'd told the younger man that it didn't matter, but . . . something in him wished that James could trust him enough to be honest with him about this most basic fact of his nature.

 

They both jumped as Katie, the barmaid, came up to their table with a tray loaded with plates.  The curly haired brunette handed them their food with a bright, "It's chilly out here for sightseeing," before she moved to give the remaining tourists on the other side of the patio their desserts.   

 

Hathaway seemed to leap at the interruption, tucking into his pot pie as if he hadn't eaten in days. 

 

Who knew?  Maybe he hadn't.  Lewis knew from personal experience that grief could numb the appetite.

 

Lewis cut into the batter crusted, steaming cod he’d ordered for himself, wondering if the conversation were over.  He hadn't learned anything he hadn't known before – James was guilt-ridden over whatever part he'd played in that unfortunate lad's decision to end his life.  It didn't seem like enough to motivate the out of character behavior during last week's case to Lewis, but did he really have any right to further pursue the subject?  He'd asked Hathaway for an explanation of his actions.  If that dissatisfying non-explanation were the only thing his sergeant were willing to share with him, should he press the man for more?  To what end?  Did he really have to hear James say he was gay or that he wasn't?

 

Silence fell between them as they ate, not the comfortable kind Lewis was used to with this man, but the tense distance they'd been experiencing since Hathaway's return to work.

 

"I've mucked everything up, haven't I?" Hathaway finally broke the quiet.

 

Unable to ignore the pain Hathaway couldn't completely hide, Lewis drew a deep breath and tried to let his frustration go.  "Don't be daft.  We're just going through a rough patch.  All relationships have them."

 

"Do they?" Hathaway asked, sounding unconvinced.

 

"'Course they do.  You've had rows with your mates before, haven't you?  The world didn't come to an end because you had a difference of opinion."  

 

"But it did, sir – every time."

 

Lewis' head shot up, his gaze moving from his unprepossessing chips to the man across the table from him.  Reading the truth in those nervous features, he answered, "Not this time, it doesn't.  Look, I . . . I'm not here in my capacity as your superior officer.  I'm just trying to understand what happened, so we can put this whole mess behind us.  But if you really can't see your way clear to talking about . . . whatever caused the situation, we'll just muddle on the way we've been doing.  It will get better.  Just takes time, doesn't it?"

 

"You could do that?  Just let the whole thing go and continue working with me?"  Though he obviously was trying to hide his reaction, Hathaway's shock shone through.  The naked hope in the question was almost indecent.

 

"Last week when all of it was going on, I asked a friend how you could trust someone you don’t really know.  He – ”

 

“You . . . you feel you don’t know me?”  James had that same anguished expression on his face he’d worn when Lewis had walked away from him in anger on the street last week.

 

More than anything, Lewis wanted to offer some reassuring platitude that would sweep the whole mess under the rug, but he couldn’t be that dishonest.  “Before last week, the idea would have been ludicrous, wouldn’t it?  But now?  You made it plain that you don’t want me to know you – that you can’t trust me,” Lewis couldn’t quite keep his own hurt from leaking through.

 

“I never meant – “

 

Before Hathaway could take off on another self-castigation bout, Lewis firmly interjected, “My friend said I should trust the parts of you that I knew.  The part of you I’m most sure of is that you – that you're . . . a good man.  You don't lie to me – not about important things.  I reckon whatever caused you to last week, it has to be . . . bloody painful.”  Reading the truth in those watchful eyes, Lewis continued with, “You and me, we're alike in some ways.  Not joiners – private, like.  Neither of us is good at talking, especially about the things that hurt us.  I’m thinking that the McEwan case hit you where you live, hurt you so bad that you stopped listening to that amazing brain of yours and just reacted.  I’m right, aren’t I?” 

 

Hathaway gave a slow nod.  Normally, Hathaway was pale, but he was looking positively pasty at the moment, like he was backed into another emotional corner, and might throw up or bolt at any instant.

 

Lewis felt a bit of the same.  He wasn’t used to making these kinds of speeches outside the interrogation room.  The fact that he would associate this discussion with his sergeant with an interrogation was more than a little unnerving.  What the hell was he doing?  Recognizing that he had overstepped all bounds, Lewis took a shaky breath and reached for his pint.

 

“What happens now, sir?”

 

“What?”

 

“I’ve clearly done irreparable damage to our working relationship and become a professional embarrassment to you.  Will you be asking for a new sergeant?”

 

“Didn’t you hear a word I just said?” Lewis asked, exasperated.  In retrospect, he realized the only parts Hathaway had probably heard were the ‘not knowing’ and ‘not trusting’ him parts of the conversation.  He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of past Hathaway had had to leave the man this filled with doubt and self-condemnation.  “Stop talking nonsense.  Would we be having this god awful conversation if I wanted to chuck it all in?  I’m just . . . trying to understand, man.”

 

“Why I lied to you?”

 

Unable to stand the palpable dread pulsing off Hathaway’s tight-held form, Lewis said, “Whatever it is you think you have to hide – it’s all right.  My knowing or not knowing, it isn’t going to change anything.  Just know that, okay?”

 

Lewis actually saw the shuddery breath his sergeant drew before asking, “But you still feel you don’t trust me or know me?”

 

“I trust you,” Lewis quickly corrected.  That much was true.

 

“So all this is – what?  An effort to know me better?”

 

Almost relieved by the stroppy tone, Lewis chuckled.  “Just your typical male bonding night down at our local.  That’s better,” Lewis approved when those slender lips gave a helpless twitch.  “Seriously, you've always been very forbearing about . . . my own personal tragedy.  Will McEwan was clearly one of yours.  I just thought . . . well, if you need to talk, I'm here."

 

Having finally said what he probably should have started this discussion off with, Lewis turned his attention back to his cooling dinner and waited for the inevitable, clipped, _"I'm fine, sir,"_ or whatever other polite declination his sergeant might offer.  He steeled himself to accept it and move on, like he'd said he would.

 

But there was no automatic evasion.  The silence deepened, tension drawing in around them like a fast moving squall towards shore.

 

Hathaway finally broke that horrible quiet with a low-voiced, "The first time I heard the accusations Marshall was making, I was five."

 

Lewis's head jerked up, eyes jumping to his sergeant's tight-held face.  " _Five_?"  Already, he was regretting his decision to force this talk.

 

"I didn't even know what the words meant, just that they were bad."

 

"But . . . at _five_?" Lewis repeated, still trying to understand what any kid could have done that young to earn those labels.  But, then, he'd seen enough of the world to know that there didn't always have to be a reason for cruelty.

 

"I wasn't . . . Well, most small boys play with toy lorries and soccer balls.  I rarely did.  I could read by the time I was three, sir.  It was all I wanted to do, that and pick out songs on my plastic piano.  The older I got, the worse it became.  I was an only child.  My father . . . well, he wanted a son he could watch rugby with and do all those other manly things real men do with their sons.  He'd take me fishing and I wouldn't want to put the worms on the hook; I'd just want to read the book I'd brought along.  If we went out with his mates and their sons, the other boys would all be rough housing in the mud, and I'd be off to the side by myself – reading, if he'd let me bring a book along, or just sitting off on my own watching if books had been forbidden on the outing.  He didn't know how to deal with a poetry-spouting aesthete.  He . . . let's just say he found me contemptible and leave it at that.”  

 

“Contemptible?”  Lewis nearly choked on the word.  “What man wouldn’t be proud to have someone like you for a son?”  

 

“Nobody likes a Know It All, sir,” Hathaway countered, but some of the stony distance left his eyes as they settled on him.  “I wasn’t an easy child.”

 

“You were a child.  No one should speak to a kid like that.”

 

“No, they shouldn’t, but he did, and . . . we just never got on.”

 

“That’s hardly your fault,” Lewis insisted.

 

“Maybe not, but those were some of the first labels that defined me.  When I was old enough to understand what the words meant – they just . . . hurt.  But . . . something like that, it’s always there in the back of your mind.”

 

“Did you ever talk to anyone about it?” 

 

“You mean professionally?” Hathaway questioned.  “When I was about ten, our parish priest heard him once after mass and . . . I’d never seen the true meaning of wrath before.  Father Michael started counselling me after that, though I didn’t know that was what he was doing at the time.  He always phrased our getting together more like me coming to help him out with stuff that needed to be done around the church, which I was always happy to do.  He’d give me these chores to help him with, and we’d just talk while working.  I always went home feeling better.  He was a good man, sir.  Always thought when I grew up, I wanted to be like him.”

 

“Did it get any better at home?” Lewis quietly asked.

 

Hathaway gave a negative shake of his head.  “Not really.  I’ve always been a bit of an odd duck, sir.  The only place that really welcomed me was church.  There were kids I played with when very little, but I never really fit in, home or anywhere.  When I went to school . . . the words _misfit_ and _leper_ spring most readily to mind."

 

Lewis knew this man's frightening intelligence.  He could only imagine how Hathaway must have suffered in public school.  "Kids can be very cruel to gifted children."

 

"Gifted – that's one word for it.  In my classmate's defense, I wasn't exactly shy about showing off how much smarter than them I was.  I was fairly friendless until Will transferred into my school when we were thirteen.  We hit it off right away.  He was the first true friend I ever had.  For over a year, it was wonderful.  Then he came out to me and it all fell apart.  The clearest thing I remember about that horrible day is Will telling me that I was just like him, only I hadn't the balls to admit it.  And there it was, that same old accusation again."  Hathaway took a deep breath and bent his head to withdraw his cigarette pack from his suit jacket's pocket.

 

Lewis couldn't help but notice James' hands were shaking as he tried to light his cigarette, and then seemingly gave it up as a lost cause.  He felt some response on his part was called for, but he didn't know what to say.  His instincts were to let Hathaway talk.  He didn’t think James had ever shared any of this with anyone.  And, it wasn’t as if he could just tell Hathaway to forget the accusation.  As much as he would like to reassure his troubled sergeant that people often said hurtful things when they were angry . . . James hadn't said that Will was wrong. 

 

But some kind of acknowledgement on his part was called for.  Hathaway’s head was bent, his arms crossed tight over his chest, as if to keep himself from shaking apart. 

 

The words rising from somewhere, Lewis softly offered, "We're all a mess at that age, aren't we?"

 

Those green eyes jumped to Lewis' face.  All the wary distance seemed to soften away from those long features as Hathaway gave a humorless laugh and answered with a self-deprecating, "Some of us more than others."

 

Lewis chuckled and took another sip of his bitter. 

 

His response seemed to have helped Hathaway some.  James once again pulled his cigarette out; only this time he was successful in lighting it.

 

Finally finding his sea legs in these rocky conversational waters, Lewis asked in as easy a tone as he could manage, "So is all this your roundabout way of telling me that you really do prefer shoes and musicals?"

 

This time, his sergeant's laughter was genuine.  It exploded out of him, drawing a panicked squawk from the nearby ducks, which only made Hathaway laugh harder. 

 

Lewis found himself joining in.  Rarely did he see James laugh this openly.

 

When they calmed, Hathaway swiped at his eyes and gave a breathless, "Thank you.  I was beginning to feel like I'd never laugh or smile again."

 

"It's been a rough week."

 

Hathaway nodded and took a long drag of his cigarette. 

 

Although James blew the smoke away from him, the cloud he exhaled still filtered over to Lewis.  He’d always thought smoking a filthy habit, but he didn’t mind it much on Hathaway.  It was a scent he associated with James, tobacco and high end after shave.    

 

"Last week, when you asked me THE question in the car, I gave you a glib evasion.  I, er, panicked."

 

"It happens."  An hour ago, Lewis would not have been able to take so calm a view of the lies he'd been fed last week.  But the fact that this very private man was willing to expose so much of his painful past to him helped ease the sense of betrayal he'd been experiencing.  James' words had more than shown him that whatever his young sergeant had been going through during the investigation, it had brought up a ton of unresolved anguish.  That bit about Hathaway's father alone was enough to make him want to track the bloody bastard down and let him know just what he thought about someone who would treat a child that way. 

 

"The truth is, I don't know what the answer to that question is."

 

"What?" Lewis tied not to gape at Hathaway, but it was one of the most ridiculous things he'd ever heard.  Hathaway was nearly thirty, not fifteen.

 

"I got my Calling early, right after Father Michael passed when I was thirteen – “

 

“Damn.  I’m sorry, man,” Lewis quickly said. “That can’t have been easy.”

 

Hathaway shrugged.  “Nothing good ever lasts long, does it?”

 

“You’re too young to be that cynical,” Lewis protested.

 

“I’m a police officer, sir.  We lose our illusions fast, don’t we?”

 

“So this Calling you mentioned–"  

 

Before Lewis could complete his question, Hathaway hesitantly offered, clearly misunderstanding, “It’s when God calls you to His service.  It’s . . . a spiritual compulsion to know God as fully as you can, to dedicate yourself to His will.”

 

Hathaway’s expression suggested that he was bracing himself for ridicule.  Remembering some of the comments he’d made to his sergeant on spiritual matters over the years, Lewis couldn’t really blame the man for expecting the worst of him.  Religion wasn’t something he had much patience or respect for anymore.  It had taken a great deal of faith in him for Hathaway to even discuss this issue.  Appreciating that trust, Lewis gently commented, “Thirteen seems a little young for that kind of commitment."

 

The visible relief that softened those tense features made Lewis glad he’d chosen to walk carefully around this issue.

 

“Not really.  The only time I ever felt truly a part of anything good when young was when I was an altar boy serving mass with Father Michael.  When he died, I knew then that I wanted to be a priest.  After that, I just lived the life I needed to make it happen.  It wasn’t even hard.  After Will, my guitar was probably my only real friend back then.  Between school, altar boy meetings, choir, music lessons, study, and practice, I hardly noticed how friendless I was.”

 

“I think you might be lying to me again, James,” Lewis gently interjected, his heart nearly breaking.  It sounded like that old priest was the only bit of kindness his sergeant had known in his youth.  It was little wonder Hathaway had wanted to join the church.

 

“Maybe,” Hathaway allowed.  “But human interaction was always difficult back then, hurtful.  There really wasn’t anyone to tempt me during those early years.  I was completely focused on becoming who I was meant to be.  And, it was enough.”

 

“Turned it off and didn’t think about it, ey?”  Before Hathaway could get the idea that he was mocking him, Lewis offered a little of his own truth, “Been doing some of that meself these last few years.”

 

“Whatever gets us through, right?  Existing among the ruins of our shattered dreams.”

 

“Housman?” Lewis guessed, a bit shaken by how apropos the quote was. 

 

To his delight, James’ lips quirked up for the briefest instant.  “Hathaway, James.”

 

Lewis chuckled.  “You’re wasted as a copper.  So, the young poet exists among his shattered dreams through puberty, what then?”

 

Lewis had been worried about making light of it, but James seemed to relax at his quip.  “A sea change.  I won a church scholarship and went to Cambridge.  Being smart wasn't a handicap there.  While I never really made friends, I wasn't . . . a complete misfit.  Then I went on to the seminary and . . . my whole world changed.  It was the first place I felt like I truly belonged.  It didn't matter that I was smart or that I didn't look like Tom Cruise or didn’t want to shag every weekend.  I was accepted with open arms for who and what I was, and . . . it was glorious.  I loved every minute of it."

 

The wistful regret in Hathaway's voice struck a chord in Lewis.  If he knew anything in this world, it was what it felt like to lose the one thing that made your life worth living.  "And talking to Will changed all that?"

 

"Not at first.  We met back up my third month in seminary in a pub not far from St. Mark’s.  Will was so happy to see me again, and I was so relieved to be able to apologize for being such a shit to him.  It was . . . really good to see him.  We still had a lot in common.  He was one of the kindest, most all around good hearted human beings I've ever met.  He never held my being such a stupid kid against me.” 

 

“Did you know about his lifestyle when you became friends again?” Lewis asked.

 

Hathaway nodded.  “It wasn’t something he was trying to hide.  You know how they sometimes say women glow when they’re pregnant?  Will glowed whenever Feardorchawas around.”

 

“How did you handle that?” Lewis asked, understanding that nothing Hathaway was telling him was coming easy to the other man.  James was making an extraordinary effort to make up for the stress the last week had put on their partnership.

 

“I know I’m not always the most gracious of conversationalists, but I managed to keep my mouth firmly shut on topics that were none of my business.  Only, Will was struggling so hard to balance his love and the demands of his faith that he was being ripped apart.  He started talking to me about the conflicts he was experiencing.  I thought . . . I really believed I was helping Will find his way back to God, but I think in retrospect that I was only making everything worse for him.  Every week or so, he’d ask me to drop by his flat or meet up with him at his local.  We’d be talking about what Will was going through, and someone would interrupt us, then it would change into a social outing.  I ended up meeting his entire crowd at one point or another.  They didn’t know I was in seminary.  It was just easier for me to be Will's childhood friend with them.  For understandable reasons, Will’s mates weren’t exactly comfortable with religious types.  They were nice guys, all of them.”

 

“So, you, um, weren’t totally the pariah you’ve let on.  You fit in with Will’s friends, then?”

 

Hathaway held his eyes, and gave a tense, “Too well, perhaps.  You know the rest.  Will came to me in crisis.  I gave him cold catechism and sent him to people who tore his gentle heart to pieces.  I didn't go with Will to the meetings and I should have done.  I didn't know how . . . brutal it was, not until way too late.  Will had a breakdown and was never the same after the Garden got through with him.  His friend Jonjo – "

 

"The chap with the movie camera?" Lewis checked, remembering the handsome young man Hathaway had had some very intense exchanges with last week.

 

Hathaway nodded.  "Yeah.  Jonjo called me and basically tore me a new one for how horrible I'd been to Will – rightly so.  I went round to see Will.  Still so arrogant in my righteousness, thinking I could fix it.  But Will was . . . a broken man.  Feardorchahad moved out.  Will was convinced he was going to burn in hell for all eternity and was so depressed that he didn’t even care.  He’d always been so . . . bright, always cheerful, always optimistic, but it was all gone, and I had done that to him.  The counseling I'd sent him to had sapped all the life and joy out of him.  There wasn't anything I could do to undo the damage I'd caused.  I went back to seminary, but . . . it just wasn't the same after that.”

 

Beginning to understand why everything kept coming back to Will for Hathaway, Lewis offered a sympathetic, “That must have been awful.”

 

Hathaway shrugged.  “No more than I deserved.  I didn't fit in there anymore.  Loving God isn't supposed to destroy your happiness.  It's supposed to strengthen it.  What I did to Will was . . . unforgivable.  I knew I couldn't be a part in destroying another human being that way again and I'd have to if I stayed, because that's the doctrine the church supports.  So . . . I quit the seminary."

 

It was clearly the hardest thing Hathaway had ever done.  Lewis pretended not to notice the brightness at the corners of James’ eyes, the same way Hathaway always affected not to notice Lewis’ misting eyes the few times Val came up in conversation and the loss cut too close.

 

Realizing that they had once again strayed from their original topic, Lewis gently said, "What happened to Will is tragic, but I don't think you can claim full responsibility for it, as much as you might feel you should.  How does all this relate to, you know, the other subject?"

 

"The liking shoes and musicals part, you mean?" Hathaway checked.

 

"Yeah, that."

 

Hathaway took a sip of his beer, obviously collecting his thoughts and choosing his words with care.  "When Jonjo read me the riot act, one of the things he said was that Will wasn't like me, that he wasn't able to turn off his sexuality and hide behind a collar, pretending to be normal.  It really shook me.”

 

His mouth inexplicably dry, Lewis took another sip of his bitter before carefully suggesting, “People say spiteful things when they’re angry.”

 

Hathaway snorted.  “He wasn’t being spiteful.  It was his honest evaluation of my situation.  He . . . knew me better than most of Will's friends.  Jonjo would show up nearly every time I saw Will.  We used to talk . . . a lot.  I, er, really liked him.”

 

“Liked him like a mate or _liked him_ liked him?” Lewis asked before he could stop himself.

 

Hathaway’s hands rose to his head.  His long, slender fingers rubbed over his nearly non-existent hair in an obvious nervous gesture.  “I want to say ‘like a mate,’ but I think that might mean lying to you again.  There was never anything overt, but there was always something . . . under it, you know?”

 

Lewis nodded.  Chemistry, he understood.  It was equally clear Hathaway didn’t.

 

“Yeah, I could see where that might happen,” Lewis said.  “Your friend Jonjo.  You said none of Will’s friends knew you were in seminary.  That collar comment –”  The detective in him couldn’t help but poke at the parts that didn’t make sense.

 

“Feardorchaknew at that point.  He told Jonjo.  Jonjo was so . . . hurt.  More than just upset about what I'd done to poor Will.  I think that was the first moment I consciously realized that Jonjo might have had feelings for me.  I really am incredibly dense at times.”

 

“What did you do about it?”

 

“There was nothing to be done.  Everyone in Will’s crowd felt I’d betrayed them.  And I had, on every level possible.”

 

“So, you lost the seminary, Will, and all your new friends at the same time?”

 

“And my faith . . . or at least the church aspect of it," Hathaway added.

 

"That's a lot of loss."

 

Hathaway gave a slow, introspective nod.  "I . . . was fairly reeling.  I had to explain why I was leaving seminary.  They were . . . less than understanding, and, while those particular labels didn't come up in the conversation, the implication was clearly there."

 

"Damn," Lewis couldn't hold the comment in. 

 

"When I left, I didn't really know who I was anymore.  All my life, people had been throwing those labels at me.  I always told myself they were wrong about me.  Only, I couldn’t deny those accusations anymore.  I’d left the priesthood because . . . because I couldn’t condemn someone for loving, for following their heart, for committing acts considered perversions by the church.”

 

The raw misery James was struggling to conceal was impossible to ignore.  Lewis wanted to reach across the table and touch his friend’s arm, to tell the man that it was all right, but James looked as if he were holding himself together by a single, frayed thread.  Any act of gentleness might topple his controls, and, while Lewis knew it would do his young sergeant a world of good to let go of some of this pain, this intensely private man wouldn’t appreciate Lewis doing anything to shatter his emotional controls in public.  So, Lewis restricted himself to a mild, “I seem to remember your Christ having a line or two about only he who is without sin throwing stones.  As I remember, he was pretty forgiving when it came to human frailty.  I can’t see him faulting you for choosing compassion over doctrine, James.”

 

Hathaway took a shuddery breath.  “Thank you.  That . . . means a lot.”

 

“Nothing to thank me for.  I shouldn’t be putting you through this, not just to satisfy my curiosity.  I’m sorry, Hathaway-man.  I never should have forced your confidence the way I did.”

 

“You didn’t.  You gave me a chance to . . . make up for the mistakes I made last week and I took it.  I . . . I think talking about it is actually helping me put some of it in perspective.  These . . . ghosts have been chasing themselves through my mind since . . . since Will . . . died.”

 

“For a lot longer than that, from the sound of it,” Lewis said.

 

“Maybe.  I haven’t been . . . comfortable since I left seminary.  There’s always been a part of me that wondered if it wasn’t me that was off all along.  If I hadn’t . . . failed God, rather than the other way around.”

 

“How’s that?”

 

“Well, dozens of other men managed to soldier on through their doubts and get ordained.  After I left, I couldn’t help but wonder if my father had seen something in me all those years ago that I . . . couldn’t accept."

 

“Your father was a vicious tosser who didn’t deserve a boy like you,” Lewis heard himself instantly answer.  His brain finally catching up, he added more cautiously, “As for the other stuff, compassion is not a weakness.”

 

“I wish . . . .”

 

“What?” Lewis encouraged.

 

“Well, I wish there’d been someone like you around back then, sir."

 

James had just spent the last forty minutes describing what Lewis could only charitably call a lonely life.  While he knew that neither Hathaway nor he had ever thought of Lewis' relationship with his sergeant as a father substitute, the dad in him fervently wished that he or someone like him could have been there to help his young friend through the bitter traumas James had so calmly detailed.  Lewis was highly aware of the fact that nearly anyone else he knew would have been a sobbing wreck while relating even half of what Hathaway had shared with him tonight.  "I do, too.  No one should have to face those kinds of challenges on their own."

 

"I was pretty. . . .”  Words seemed to utterly fail this normally articulate man.

 

“Lost?” Lewis suggested.

 

“In a big way.  I'd been wrong about so much in the whole Will situation that, well, I wondered if maybe Jonjo was right in what he said about me, too.  Had I chosen to be a priest to evade the whole issue?

 

"I'd think that's something you would have known, isn't it?" Lewis gently asked.  "You said you were thirteen when you decided to become a priest.  A lad knows by thirteen, doesn't he?  It’s young, but not that young."

 

"Does he?"

 

Lewis didn't know if the chill that went through him at the hollow words were caused by the bleak tone or the mist that was beginning to move off the river.

 

"Of course he does," Lewis insisted. 

 

"I didn't.  Still don't, really."

 

"What?" There was no way Lewis could keep the shock out of his voice.

 

"I was twenty-two when I left seminary.  I'd never been out on a single date – with either sex.  Even someone as oblivious as me understood that wasn't exactly normal."  Hathaway rubbed a hand over his face, wincing as it passed over the healing scab on his right cheek.  "It occurred to me that maybe that's why I never fit in anywhere.  Maybe everyone was right all along about me.  So I . . . went to one of the clubs Will and his friends hung out in . . . and tried to work out whether I was the musical type or the Yorkie bar type and . . . ."

 

"And?" Lewis prompted.

 

Hathaway's laugh was as devoid of mirth as his words.  "It was an unmitigated disaster, of course.  A priest in a pick up joint.  They shag with strangers in those places, exchanging body fluids instead of business cards.  I didn't fit in there.  Didn't fit in the straight clubs across town, either, when I tried them." 

 

"Just because you don't like casual or anonymous sex doesn't mean you're abnormal," Lewis offered.  "I was never comfortable in those kinds of clubs meself when young."

 

"No, but you managed to find someone who cared about you.  My last pathetic attempt to form a meaningful relationship ended up with my needing to be rescued from a psychotic, transsexual serial killer."

 

Uncomfortable with the self-recrimination in Hathaway's scathing assessment, Lewis went out on a limb and tried to change the tone of the conversation with a gentle, "All right.  You win the Worst First Date Ever Award, hands down." 

 

Hathaway's eyes bulged, then, thankfully, he threw back his head and roared with laughter.  When he calmed, he softly said, "God, sir."

 

"You shouldn't be berating yourself like that.  Zoe Kenneth was a beautiful woman.  There's no way you could have known the truth.  I certainly didn't.  If you're looking for an answer to the shoes or Yorkie bar question, it seems to me the fact that you were attracted to _her_ might work."

 

"But she wasn't born a woman.  Maybe I sensed that on some level and was attracted to her because she'd been a man . . . ."

 

Hathaway's fretful abstraction told Lewis that this was something that had been deeply troubling him.  "What if you were?  Would that be so horrible?"  The visible uncertainty that met his questions was nearly heartbreaking.  "We're back at the Catholic thing again, aren't we?"

 

Hathaway shrugged, "You can take the boy out of Catholic school, but – "  The words trailed off into miserable silence.

 

Lewis knew he didn't have any easy, pat answers to this kind of soul searching.  Who was he to presume to guide this brilliant man through his existential angst?  And yet, his conscience couldn't let this go.  Hathaway was too good a man to be tormenting himself over things he hadn't chosen and probably couldn't help but experience.

 

"I'm no theologian and my faith, well, you know where that stands," Lewis offered, gathering his thoughts.  Whatever he said, he had to say it right.  He'd seen where religious dogma had driven Hathaway's friend.  He didn't think James was that unstable, but it wasn't something to take chances with.  The subject matter had already driven his partner to lies.  For both his personal and professional sake, Hathaway had to get a handle on these issues.  "The one thing I remember clearly about the Bible – all versions of it – was that Christ's main message was that man should love his fellow man.  I don't remember him being too specific about how a man should or shouldn't do that."

 

Hathaway started, his head cocking to the side.

 

"I know you can pull a thousand arguments drawn from scripture," Lewis continued, a little uncomfortable under the intense concentration James was giving him.  "I can't debate doctrine with you to prove my point; we both know that.  But everything inside tells me that these prejudices are manmade, not from God.  If God does really exist, I just can't see him troubling himself over what kind of flesh a person has in their trousers when they fall in love with someone."

 

After a moment's thought, Hathaway hesitantly said, "But a man my age should know, shouldn't he?"

 

"You already know," Lewis answered levelly, with absolutely no trace of accusation.

 

"I've only ever slept with women," Hathaway said, his expression seeming to declare that the words sounded as lame to him as they did to Lewis.  "But . . . ."

 

Decades of parenting and police work behind him, Lewis knew better than to say anything here.  He just waited.

 

Finally, Hathaway whispered, "Because it's not a sin until you act upon it.  Is that what you're suggesting?"

 

"Never.  I don't think it's a sin at all, lad."  The last slipped out, despite himself.

 

"But how could I not be sure?"

 

“All of us are experts at distracting ourselves from inconvenient or unpleasant truths, myself included,” Lewis pointed out. 

 

“It’s a fairly huge issue to hide from one's self, wouldn’t you think?”

 

“Last week, you were acting as if it were true,” Lewis reminded.

 

“I was,” Hathaway admitted.  “When I came face to face with Jonjo after all these years, it . . . . “

 

“Yes?” Lewis gently encouraged.

 

“It felt like I was meeting my ex.  It was that painful.  And then you saw us together and I knew you would be thinking what anyone with half a brain would be thinking . . . I felt trapped and guilty.  Over something I never did.”

 

The events of last week abruptly made a weird kind of sense.  “The only thing I ever thought you guilty of was lying to me.  The rest . . . you've told me more than once that the heart chooses.  You have a good heart.  Just listen to it.”

 

“I don’t know that we’re on speaking terms anymore, sir,” Hathaway said the words in an almost joking manner, but his gaze told Lewis that they were quite possibly the truest words James had ever spoken.  “How could we be when I’ve such questions about . . . .”

 

“Whether you should be in a shoe store or a candy store?” Lewis offered when words seemed to fail his companion.

 

Hathaway didn't explode with laughter again, but his gaze brightened with a fond, nearly happy light.  “Exactly.”

 

"There's an easy enough test for it."  Lewis was completely confused by the shock that blanked all emotion from Hathaway's expression.  He'd seen that look before when his young sergeant was seriously thrown by a development and didn't know how to respond.

 

"Test, sir?"

 

Bewildered by the ambivalent way Hathaway was looking at him, Lewis nodded.  It was only as Hathaway’s uncertainty gave way to rigid expectation that Lewis recognized his error.  He’d just told this young man who was uncertain of his sexuality that there was a way to test it.  What would anyone’s obvious conclusion as to the nature of the test be in that situation?  “Not that, you daft sod.”

 

“I . . . oh.  Sorry, sir.  I should have known better.”

 

“Christ, this is complicated,” Lewis complained.

 

“You should try it from this end, sir,” Hathaway reclaimed a bit of his normal sass, before sobering.  “The test?”

 

"Answer me honestly and don't take time to think.  That film we saw when we were half-pissed a few weeks ago –"

 

" _Iron Man_?" Hathaway questioned, appearing understandably perplexed by Lewis' bringing a comic book hero into this deadly serious discussion.  His sergeant couldn't have sounded more shocked if Lewis had introduced a theorem from Euclidian geometry into the conversation.

 

"Yeah, that's the one.  Who were you watching in the film – the bloke in the suit or his dishy girlfriend?"

 

"Unfair question, sir," Hathaway protested, chuckling as he joked, "It was Robert Downey, Junior."

 

Lewis raised his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side as he watched Hathaway's amusement deflate.

 

"Bloody hell."

 

Lewis was afraid that his practical demonstration might have been too much for his upset sergeant to handle, but after a stunned pause, Hathaway started to chuckle again, "I'm a complete mess, aren't I?"

 

"Rather a bit, but . . . you're going to be all right."  That much Lewis was sure of.  "You just have some things to work out, that's all.  Once you figure them out, you'll be right as rain – which it's starting to do," Lewis pointed out, watching as the tourists at the only other occupied table gathered their things and scurried inside the pub.

 

“You think I’m, er . . ?”

 

“I think, no, I _know_ , the answer to that question doesn’t matter to me.  You’re you – the bloke who stopped me from walking under a car the first hour we met, the sergeant who backs me up, no matter what.  The rest is all . . . just background info.  So long as it’s not . . . hurting or troubling you, the shoes or Yorkie bar issue doesn’t really factor into it.  All right?”

 

Lewis realized he must have said something right because, for the first time in memory, Hathaway didn’t look dour.  In fact, the lad was practically glowing.

 

Lewis met those bright eyes, glad to see the gloom finally dispersing. 

 

As their gazes touched and held, something unanticipated happened.  Lewis couldn't even say exactly what occurred.  One moment, he was standing there smiling at Hathaway, the next . . . .

 

Hathaway gave a physical start and dropped his eyes.

 

Perplexed, Lewis watched a flush redden Hathaway's cheeks, pinking his skin right down to his neck.  He must have realized he was talking to his governor, Lewis decided.  The subsequent words seemed to confirm his hypothesis.

 

"I . . . I don't know how to thank you, sir.  I really shouldn't have burdened you with any of this," Hathaway said, visibly uncomfortable.

 

"Burden me?  I all but twisted your arm, man.  One thing, though."

 

It was utterly absurd after the topics they'd been grappling with for the last hour out here at this damp table, but Lewis was abruptly self-conscious about what he was thinking of saying.  Still, something inside wouldn't let it go unspoken.  Hathaway had bared his soul to him tonight.  The man was obviously uneasy, and why wouldn't he be?  They might be mates, but he was still Hathaway's superior officer.  Lewis couldn't imagine ever having this type of discussion with Inspector Morse.  Whatever else he did, Lewis knew he had to let James know what it meant to him that Hathaway had trusted him as much as he had.  Discomfort or not, he owed it to his friend.  But how to do it without embarrassing them both to death?  "What you said before, about never having belonged or fit in anywhere –"

 

"Yes?" Hathaway was watching him as if Lewis were holding a loaded gun.

 

"That isn't true.  Hasn't been for some time.  You belong exactly where you are – sitting across from me.  You need to know that."  Lewis wished he could say more, but that was as much of an avowal as his Northern soul could manage.

 

It seemed more than enough for Hathaway were his stunned expression any indication.  "I . . ."

 

"Come on, man, we're getting soaked," Lewis said with a smile as he rose inelegantly from the bench and led the way inside.

 

He didn't need to look to see if Hathaway were there with him.  He just knew he would be.  And that was all right, too.

 

The End.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please follow me at Tumblr at: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tiranog


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